Death Doesn't Become Her
Or anyone else in the visual-aids companion to S01E18, 'It's Only A Test.' Well, maybe David Byrne.
Listen along with our coverage of "It's Only A Test" right here!
Before we get into the meat of the episode, let's check in with West Beverly's Future Obsolete Business Machine Club!
An overcaffeinated Andrea combed her hair with a sneaker this morning,
then had a meltdown over class issues and SAT prep,
and invited herself over to Steve's house. Not sure you can discern the have/have-not theme? ...How 'bout now?
Well, at least it's age-appropriate actor-wise.
Surprised Steve can turn this 'sault with the boner he's likely got going.
So bothered are both parties that they're nearly late to the SATs! Try to ignore Carteris's ungainly cornering to admire her style, which is actually not bad here!
An awkward meeting at the doorway later, the proctor calls them "lovebirds" and orders them to sit (and spin; that part was silent). Kel, Bran: how's that 'ship sitting with you?
Over in the main plot, it's time for fun with vintage breast-exam literature!
...Fun's over. Silent-movie gawping's just starting, though.
With love, because this correspondent also has the ol' Picasso eyes, but this is absolutely the wonkiest Doherty's face has ever looked.
While you're at the doctor, see about getting a pad-ectomy for Cindy's ROBE.
See previous re: eye-wonk. Like, her left eye looks a full inch lower than the right one in some shots. Also, anyone else think she's overreacting to Jim's haplessness here? Dads don't know about this shit. That said, A+ "...fuck's sake" reaction from his better half.
It's a doctor's appointment, not an interview in the Kohl's returns department.
The doctor is boring, but perfectly cast to be comforting.
Unlike Francis X. Overactman over here. Could you express your concern a little more platonically, please?
And they love her. They love their dead, non-gay aunt.
It's not JUST that he's got a half can of max-hold in that hair. It's the contrast with Ohhhhhndrea's stretched-out spiral nonsense at right. Flat iron, lady. RIGHT now.
Looks like the check finally cleared, as after being absent all ep Dylan finally shows up...to grab-ass Brenda in hallway public. Dick.
Poof clown says what?
The inevitable nightmare-sequence filler, in which Brenda's subconscious melodramatically conceives her funeral as a standardized test taken on the set of a touring production of Woodstock: The New Class.
Pretty sure your block isn't zoned for those shoulderpads, Mrs. Byrne.
Why stop at the Esprit blouse, Dylan; or the blouse and the crunchy floof jutting off the front of your head like the gargoyle on a very skinny Viking longboat? Why not add some GODDAMNED PANTALOONS? Hey, Fresh Prince Of Fireplace Bellows: don't help!
Fashion water finds its level, I guess. Its very high, very tight level.
With the caveat that we are 1) not twins and 2) so WASPy, we call our home The Hive, if MY brother cupped my face like that, I'd stab him in the eye with a swizzle stick. BECAUSE HE'S MY BRRRRROTHERRRRRRR. Geeh-rooooosssss.
...You know what, I'll just stab myself in the eye instead.